


A Father's Shame

by Barcardivodka



Series: How they became [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Backstory, Father-Son Relationship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-09
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-05 20:20:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5388962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barcardivodka/pseuds/Barcardivodka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1939 Viktor Kuryakin, husband of Yagoda, father to Illya, is caught up in one of Stalin's purges. He is falsely accused of embezzling party funds and sent to the labour camps.</p><p>An unlikely source provides a link, and a future, to his son.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Betrayal

**Author's Note:**

> A thank you story for butimstillfondofyou on tumblr
> 
>  
> 
> As always, with grateful thanks to Jay.

**_September 1939 - Moscow_ **

“Ivan! What brings you to my door this late in the evening?” Viktor Kuryakin asked jovially his voice full of curiosity. He was about to beckon his friend and colleague in when he noticed another man stood at the bottom of the steps and two cars parked directly outside the house.

“Viktor, this is Oleg Kuznetsov,” Ivan introduced, his voice laced with regret. “ _Major_ Kuznetsov of the NKVD.” The other man joined Ivan on the top step and gave a nod in greeting. He was a plain, non-descript man, nothing about him stood out. He was about six feet in height, four inches shorter than Viktor and wore a dark grey overcoat. He suited his profession perfectly.

“Please gentleman, come in,” Viktor invited as he opened the door wider. He clamped down on the despair that threatened to overwhelm him as he closed the door behind them. When he turned to face the two men his expression was a mask of pleasant curiosity. “Won’t you come through?” He led them from the hall and into the living room. His wife looked up from where she was sat on the sofa next to their son as he entered and then stood up as the other men step inside.

“Ivan, what a pleasant surprise,” she smiled. She looked at Viktor, her eyes filled with worry.

“Yagoda may I introduce Major Oleg Kuznetsov,” Viktor left out that the man was from the secret police. “Major, my wife, Yagoda and my son, Illya.” His young son left the sofa and joined his mother by her side. Yagoda’s hand immediately went to his shoulder and pulled him closer to her.

“A fine family,” Kuznetsov returned pleasantly.

“Yagoda, some tea for our guests, perhaps?”

“Of course. Illya, I will need your help with the tray.”

“Yes, mother,” Illya replied dutifully, following her from the room, his gaze full of inquisitiveness as he looked from Ivan and Kuznetsov.

The men stood silent until Yagoda and Illya had left the room and the door closed behind them. Viktor turned to look at Ivan.

“Why are you here?” He asked sharply.

“You are to be charged with embezzlement of party funds,” it was Kuznetsov that answered.

“That’s preposterous!” Viktor snapped back. “I am no thief.”

“There is a wealth of evidence against you, Comrade Kuryakin,” Kuznetsov replied calmly.

“Evidence? What evidence? Ivan, do you support this madness?” Viktor implored desperately.

“Viktor, my friend,” Ivan said, his voice full of sorrow. He moved to clasp his hand around Viktor’s arm. “Stalin himself has accused you. A charge of embezzlement is far better than the alternative.”

Ivan was right, of course. For the last decade Stalin had been purging the country of those who spoke out against him. His paranoia had grown to such an extent that even disagreeing with him could mean a death sentence. Viktor had foolishly thought himself immune to such madness, having long been a favourite of Stalin’s since the man had come to power.

“The sentence?” Viktor asked hoarsely, as the full horror of his fate started to become clear.

“Fifteen years in one of the labour camps,” Kuznetsov said. Viktor looked at him in horror.

“Fifteen years! But what of my family?”

“They are to be turned out, Viktor,” Ivan’s hand tightened on his arm. “I promise you, I will look out for them, as best as I can.”

“They will starve!” Viktor roared out in horror. “Illya is only eight. Is he to be subjected to the hardship of the factories? To have no other options but to live a short brutal life.” He grasped Ivan’s shoulder. “He is a bright boy. He excels at mathematics. He has surpassed his classmates already. You cannot condemn him to such a life.” He pleaded.

“Viktor, there is no choice. If you resist arrest you will be executed. Yagoda and Illya must survive as best they can until you can re-join them. Yagoda is an educated woman; she will be able to tutor Illya. As I have already promised you, my friend, I will do all that I am able for them.” Viktor released his hold and turned his back to the men.

“Comrade Kuryakin, when your son turns fourteen I may be able to smooth his entry into the academy,” Kuznetsov said quietly.

Viktor turned to look at him. “A soldier?” he sneered.

“It is better than a factory worker, no? At least he will have more options. He would be able to continue his education.”

“He will be the son of a traitor to the people. The Kuryakin name will forever be tainted. He will be an outcast.” Viktor argued bitterly.

“His loyalty will be continually tested and he will have to work harder to prove himself worthy that is true. But it is an obstacle that can be overcome.”

Viktor bowed his head and gazed unseeing at the carpet in front of him. Fifteen years in a labour camp, just because something he had said, or written, had been taken the wrong way by Stalin. A man so paranoid he would shoot his own shadow if he could. But it was Viktor and his family who were to suffer and their suffering would be great.

He slowly raised his head. “Which camp?”

“Sevvostlag,” Kuznetsov replied tonelessly.

Viktor closed his eyes in anguish.

“I would like some time with my wife and son,” he opened his eyes and looked at Kuznetsov.

“I can give you an hour, no more. You should advise you wife to pack as many things of value as she can fit into a suitcase. Things that she will be able to sell. She and your son will have to leave at daybreak.”

“They can stay with us,” Ivan injected. “For as long as they like.” It was a desperate and rash offer and they both knew it.

“You have seven children, Ivan,” Viktor replied wearily. “You do not have the room for two more. And if it’s found out you have the family of a traitor under your roof, you could suffer the same fate. But I would be grateful if you could help Yagoda and Illya find accommodation elsewhere.” He stepped towards Ivan and placed his hands on the shorter man’s shoulders. “If you could keep your promise to help when you can, I will always be in your debt.”

Ivan nodded and the two embraced.

“We will wait in the hall.” Ivan headed for the door, Kuznetsov a step behind. As the door opened Yagoda was stood a few paces away, her face pinched white. There was no tray in her hands. Illya stood by her side, his face usually so full of mischievous smiles, was pulled into a worried frown. Ivan looked at them both with dismay as he walked past.

She turned her gaze to Viktor who summoned her inside. The doors closed ominously behind her and her son.


	2. Consequences

**_October 1944 - Sevvostlag Labour Camp, Magadan Oblast (6419 miles from Moscow)_ **

“Kuryakin, you have a visitor.”

“Me?” Viktor blurted out to the guard that had addressed him, unsure if he had heard correctly.

“Yes, you. Don’t keep him waiting,” the guard snapped out. He roughly grabbed Viktor’s arm and propelled him forward.

Six years in the camps had packed muscle onto Viktor’s lean frame, but the punishments, lack of food and long months of biting cold were starting to take their toll. He had nine more years to survive.

He was allowed to write to his wife once a month, which he did so care of his friend Ivan. He had never yet received a reply. He feared for Yagoda and Illya. He feared that they too had been sent to the camps or had perished on the unforgiving streets of Moscow. Yagoda was the granddaughter of a Politburo officer and had always lived the privileged life of a party member. As such, she was well educated, but had never known the bite of hunger or the exhaustion of working twelve-hour days. Neither had he until he arrived at the camps.

His son, Illya, was never meant to experience such hardship either. Illya had excelled at his studies. At just eight years of age he was on his way to becoming a chess champion. Mathematics came easily to him. His future should have been bright, a university degree, followed by a career in his chosen field, physics perhaps, or mathematics. Then into politics. Illya should never have known a day of hunger. The boy would always be shunned, tainted by his father’s alleged treason. He would be lucky to get work at all.

Viktor was pulled from his musings when he was roughly halted near the camp gate. He looked up as a man stepped out of the guard house.

“Thank you, soldier.” The man said, dismissing the guard. As he stepped closer Viktor recognised him.

“Major Kuznetsov!”

“Comrade Kuryakin.”

“You have come to see me?”

“I’m afraid I have come to convey bad news,” Kuznetsov took a step closer. “Your wife died six months ago.”

Viktor stared in open mouth horror as the words slowly sunk in.

“I only found out myself last month,” he heard Kuznetsov continue.

“How? How did she die?” he choked out.

Kuznetsov hesitated for a moment. “The doctors concluded it was a brain tumour. “

Hot tears rolled down Viktor’s cheeks as he fell to his knees on the frozen earth.

“Illya? My son? Is he all right? Is he safe?” he begged.

Kuznetsov crouched down in front of him, his hand disappearing into his overcoat for a second, before coming back into a view holding a photograph.

“He was sent to an orphanage, but I have had him moved to the academy. He is settling in well.” He held out the photograph to Viktor who took it with shaking hands.

Illya was no long Viktor’s happy carefree young boy. A sullen face stared back at him. More man than boy now. Viktor brushed a thumb over the photograph, more tears welling in his eyes as he noticed the ugly, vivid red scar near Illya’s right eye. Viktor could not bring himself to ask how Illya had been so cruelly injured. His heart ached for the gentle young boy that he had condemned to a lifetime of hardship and shame.

“He is already six foot tall,” Kuznetsov said. “The doctors say he will grow taller.”

“He is doing well in his studies?” Viktor asked.

“He is excelling in all his studies. He is an admirable young man. He will be a credit to his country.”

Viktor knew that was the highest compliment a man like Kuznetsov could give. Illya was destined to serve his country as a soldier. It was not the future Viktor would have hoped for his son. But at least Illya had a future.

Kuznetsov stood up and Viktor followed suit. The cold had seeped painfully into his knees. He reluctantly held the photograph out to the other man.

“No. It is yours to keep. I will try and send you more.”

“Thank you. For this,” Viktor indicated the photograph. “And for telling me about my wife.”

“I managed to retrieve some items from your wife’s former … home. I will pass them onto Illya when he is of age.”

“You have been very kind to my family. Why?”

Kuznetsov smiled. “Some NKVD officers do also have a heart. Your son, given the right opportunities, will be a credit to you and his country. He will regain the honour of your name.”

With a nod Kuznetsov turned and walked back to the guard house. He spoke to one of the guards for a moment and then the gate was opened and he disappeared. A few moments later the guard approached Viktor and he was escorted back to the barracks.

Kuznetsov was true to his word and Viktor received a new photograph of Illya at the beginning of each October. They were left unmolested by the guards.

**_August 1952 - Sevvostlag Labour Camp, Magadan Oblast (6419 miles from Moscow)_ **

“Kuryakin. You have a visitor.”

Viktor turned watery eyes towards the guard as he painfully took another breath. He was dying. Cancer, the doctor had told him. At least he would die in a bed in the infirmary and not on the floor of the barrack with a hundred bodies fighting for an inch of extra space.

The guard disappeared from his bedside and a familiar face replaced it.

“Comrade Kuryakin.”

“Major Kuznetsov.”

“It is Colonel now,” the other man smiled.

“I’m dying,” Viktor stated bluntly.

“Yes, I know. I had informed the camp commander to notify me if such an event should happen.”

“How is Illya?”

“Illya is a member of the Special Forces now. His commanders are very pleased with him. He is also continuing his studies when his duties allow.”

Viktor nodded. “He is a good boy.”

Kuznetsov pulled a photograph from his jacket pocket and handed it to Viktor. “I would have brought him with me, but heis currently on a mission. I do not know when he will return.”

Viktor looked at the photograph and smiled. It showed Illya playing chess, his face a study of concentration as he contemplated his next move. His opponent looked somewhat harried.

“He won the game?” Viktor asked.

Kuznetsov nodded. “Easily. It has been difficult finding him challenging opponents.”

“May I ask a favour, Colonel?”

“Of course.”

Viktor reached under his pillow with some difficulty and pulled out a watch. He handed it to Kuznetsov.

“Will you give this to Illya? It is all I have to give him.” He huffed out a hoarse laugh. “My wife gave it me, just before Illya was born. I have fought to keep it safe from my fellow prisoners, from the guards, from being broken. It has served my sentence alongside me. It knows my pain and sorrow, but also my happier days.”

Kuznetsov carefully placed the watch in his pocket. “I will ensure he receives it at the earliest opportunity.” He promised.

“Thank you for all you have done. The photographs have meant everything to me. It was good to see him grow into such a handsome young man.”

“He is also taller than you now, Comrade. His height has been declared at six foot five.”

“Tell him I thought of him every day. That I wished I could have seen him grow up.” Viktor wheezed out.

Kuznetsov leant forward and patted his arm. “He has always known this.”

Viktor fell asleep a few moments later and when he woke Kuznetsov was gone.

Viktor Kuryakin died four days later.

**Author's Note:**

> NKVD was the forerunner for the KGB
> 
> Although the movie indicates Illya was 10/11 when his father was sent to the gulag, I have taken creative licence to move it back a couple of years, so that I could put the story into the Stalin Purges timeframe.
> 
> Sevvostlag was the labour camp from which prisoners were forced to work on The Road of Bones.


End file.
